Dulce, in spite of herself, is by degrees drawn to listen to it; yet though the words so softly spoken attract her and chain her attention, there is always a line of discontent around her lovely mouth, and a certain angry petulance within her eyes, and in the gesture with which she furls and unfurls her huge black fan. Dicky Browne, who has confiscated all the cake, and is therefore free to go where he lists, has drawn near to her, and, under cover of a cigarette, is pretending to be absorbed in the poetry. Gower has fallen now upon Gray's Elegy in a Churchyard, and is getting through it most effectively. All the others have grown silent, either touched by the beauty of the dying daylight, or the tender lines that are falling on the air. When at length Stephen finishes the poem, and his voice ceases to break the stillness of the coming eve, no one stirs, and an utter calm ensues. It is broken by the irrepressible Julia. "What a charming thing that is," she says, alluding, they presume, to the Elegy. She pauses here, but no one takes her up or seems to care to continue the praise of what is almost beyond it. But Julia is not easily discouraged. "One can almost see the gaunt trees," she says, sentimentally, "and the ivied walls of the old church, and the meadows beyond, and the tinkling of the tiny bells, and the soft white sheep as they move perpetually onward in the far, far distance." She sighs, as though overcome by the perfect picture she has so kindly drawn for their benefit. "I wish to goodness she would move on herself," says Dicky Browne. "It is enough to make poor Gray turn in his grave." "I think she describes rather prettily, and quite as if she meant it," says Portia, softly. "Not a bit of it," growls Dicky; "she _don't_ mean it; she couldn't; It's all put on--regular plaster! She doesn't feel it; she knows as much about poetry as I do." "You underrate yourself, my darling boy," says Roger, fondly. "Oh! you get out," says Mr. Brown, most ungratefully. "I think to be able to read _really_ well is an intense charm," goes on Julia, glancing sweetly at Stephen. "If one had only some one to give one a kindly hint now and then about the correct intonation and emphasis and that, it would be a regular study, of course. I really have half a mind to go in for it." "So glad she has at last arrived at a just appreciation of her own powers," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "I should think she has just half a mind and no more, to do anything with." He is hushed up; and then Stephen goes on again, choosing passages from Shakespeare this time, for a change, while silence once more reigns.